Step By Step Ch. 08

Slowly, hesitantly, Helen made her way between the rows of desks and up to the front of the class. Like all the girls she was dressed in the school uniform of a white blouse and a knee length pleated tartan skirt. Her palms were sweaty and her heart was thumping. There was complete silence from the rest of the pupils but a buzz of expectation filled the room. She went and stood before the teacher with her head bowed and her hands clasped behind her back feeling small and defenceless.

"Do you know why you're here?" the teacher demanded.

"No, Miss." Helen replied in barely more than a whisper.

"What was that? Speak up. I want the whole class to hear you," the teacher continued.

"I'm sorry, Miss. I said I don't know, Miss." Helen said, a bit clearer this time.

"I don't know, Miss," the teacher mocked. "Well, I do. You were seen, yesterday, in the changing rooms. Perhaps that will remind you; now, tell the class what you were doing."

"I wasn't doing anything, Miss." Helen knew where this was going but was too scared to admit anything.

"Not doing anything? Oh yes you were, and well you know it. Don't you dare lie to me; you're in enough trouble as it is. Now tell the truth. What were you doing? In particular I want you to tell the class exactly what were you doing with the handle of your tennis racket?"

"I was... I was... I was... Please, Miss, I can't say it, I can't say what I was doing."

"You can say and you will say. I'm going to start counting and for every count you get an extra stroke with the cane. One... Two... Three... Four... Five..."

Please, Miss, I was playing with myself, Miss." There, she'd said it and, as expected, there was a gasp from the class; a gasp of horror mixed with delighted anticipation. She knew just how much the class loved a caning, it was a welcome break from lessons as long as it wasn't happening to them; everyone likes a bit of theatre and this teacher loved building up the drama.

"Yes, indeed, playing with yourself. I'm sure you remember what Pastor Michaels said on just this subject; how dirty, disgusting, perverted little monsters like you who wallow in lust will end up burning in hell. Playing with yourself is a sin, a mortal, deadly sin. It's lust but, worse than that, it's perverted lust. You're going to get twelve strokes of the cane, plus the five for keeping me waiting, that makes seventeen. Maybe that will teach you to treat your body with God's respect. Now, you know what to do."

Helen did indeed know what to do; she seen others in this situation often enough but her fear was so disabling she had to force herself to move. She went to stand at the centre, in front of the class and with her back to them. Then, as she'd watched her classmates do so many times before, she leant forward and down and grasped her ankles. Meanwhile the teacher had fetched the cane from the cupboard where it was stored and was flexing it back and forth, making it swish in the air. Idly she tapped the cane against Helen's calves, ordering her to spread them wider until the gap between her feet was maybe eighty centimetres.

"You're a disgusting little pervert. What are you?" the teacher continued.

"I'm a disgusting little pervert, Miss." Helen knew how this game was played and what was the only allowable response but it still hurt to say the words.

"A disgusting little pervert," the teacher echoed, "and do you deserve to be caned."

"Yes, Miss, thank you, Miss." This too was part of the catechism.

"And do disgusting little perverts like you deserve any modesty?" the teacher asked.

"No, Miss." Here it comes, thought Helen.

The teacher reached down with the cane and flicked up the back of Helen's skirt, its pleats flaring so as to allow it to be flipped up exposing her backside. This time the gasp from the class was a roar.

"Look, Miss, look! She's got no knickers on!" Billy, the class wag, cried out. "I can see her bum hole! I can see her..."

Helen couldn't suppress a sob; she felt so open, so exposed and, to add to her fear and shame, she felt a warm trickle of urine running down her leg as she lost control of her bladder. She could almost feel the intense stare of every boy in the class and a good few of the girls for that matter. She wasn't sure which was worse: wetting herself or being so exposed; either way she knew exactly what was going to be the main talking point of the playground for the rest of her time in school. From now on she would forever be known as the girl with no knickers, the girl who wet herself.

"Quiet, Billy," ordered the teacher. "Well, well, well. Now we all know exactly what sort of filthy harlot we're dealing with; what a dirty, dirty little girl she is. Look children, look and see exactly where sin and lewdness lead to. It's quite apparent that this little slut's disgusting behaviour in the changing rooms is far from the full extent of her depravity. Maybe two dozen strokes will cure her but I doubt it, she's no decency, her sort was born to burn in hell, consumed by the fire of their own evil lusts."

Helen just wished she could die. The shame, the abject shame, was more than she could bear. Her cheeks, her face, her whole body burned with embarrassment. Please, please, please start the caning, anything, anything at all to punish this body, this wretched body with its perverse desires. She needed, wanted, craved, the sting of the cane, the burning fire to purge her sins, to quench the other fire, the fire that burned between her thighs. She needed this; she hated this; she needed this; she hated this; she needed.......

With a start Helen woke up, out of breath, her whole body shaking from the dream. It had been so vivid, so real and so, so disturbing. It was a complex brew of emotions, the fear of the cane, the shame and embarrassment of being so exposed before the class, though only the logic of dreams could explain her knickerless state, or, indeed, the crime of self abuse in the changing rooms; in real life the schoolgirl that Helen had been would never have had the nerve, or desire, to do either. But far more disturbing than that was the state the dream left her in, the burning need coming from her loins. This was the third time she'd had this dream, or one very like it, since that awful Sunday; three times in four days, or should that be nights. It didn't help that the 'teacher' was, in some curious way, both Sam and not Sam. Sure, that didn't make sense but then dreams seldom do.

With a start she realised her hand, unbidden and unguided, had ended up inside her pyjamas deep between her thighs. Mentally she scolded herself but, despite the guilt and the shame, she couldn't stop herself and, minutes later, she'd rubbed herself to a crashing orgasm.

Meanwhile, just a few feet away in the house next door, Sam lay in bed, tossing and turning, running the same argument through her mind one more time.

"Stupid, stupid little cow." She muttered to herself as she rolled over, yet again. "Her head's so full of that religious bullshit I'm glad I'm rid of her; she was more trouble than she was worth. Ungrateful bitch, after all the things I did for her, all the allowances I made and she just flings it back in my face; the hurtful, spiteful, mean spirited..."

Sam vowed she wasn't going to cry again, she wasn't the crying sort, especially over someone as unworthy as... as... But she couldn't even say the name as she tugged roughly at the duvet, pulling it once more over her head in a desperate attempt to block out her thoughts.

For Helen the dreams weren't the only way in which her life had been disturbed since last Sunday. When she had arrived at work on Monday morning everyone had commented on her new hair cut and, somehow, they seemed to believe that it marked a new, more self-confidant, Helen, so different from the emotional mess that she felt inside. She'd tried to slip into the background, to be quiet and unobserved as usual, but, suddenly, she seemed to be constantly in demand.

And, whether at work or not, she couldn't stop thinking about Sam. Her conviction that Sam was this immoral harlot who had led her astray kept coming up against very different memories; memories of a softer, gentler, more sympathetic person, one who had understood her, who had made her feel wanted and made her feel whole again. A couple of times she caught herself thinking about what she would say, what she would do when she met up with Sam later on in the day, only to be brought back down to earth when she realised that would never be. Their easygoing chats were now a thing of the past. And then, especially after one of the dreams, there was the physical memory, the warmth, the delicacy, the tenderness of the shared embrace. She knew it was evil, knew it was wrong, but, if it were wrong, why had God made her body want it so much? And it wasn't just the gentle embrace she missed, but also the sting of the paddle across her backside, the feeling of being taken, plundered; sure she knew she was wicked for wanting it but it was a wickedness she couldn't control, however hard she tried.

And then, on the Friday, she bumped into Susan in the corridor at work and, when Susan suggested meeting up for lunch in pub across the road Helen hadn't the strength to say no but acquiesced and agreed to be there for twelve thirty.

"Hi, Helen," Susan called out as she saw Helen entering the pub. She pointed to an empty seat next to her and Helen went and sat down. Susan asked what Helen was drinking and went and fetched a coke from the bar.

At first they just chatted about work, about the office politics, the inordinate length of time it was taking to sort out this year's pay deal and whether the new contract was going to mean new jobs. Helen had forgotten just how easy Susan was to talk to, what a really nice person she was.

"So, then, what's all this about you and Sam?" Susan asked when a suitable lull in the conversation arose.

"Sam and I... We're not together any more. Anyway, what's all what about Sam and me? What's she been saying?" Helen was suddenly on the defensive.

"What's she been saying? Ha! What's she not been saying, more like it? She was down the club last night with a face like thunder, drinking whisky like it's going out of style and, whilst she was obviously hurting, she did not want to talk about it. I've not seen her this down in ages; that's why I thought I'd come and ask you. Get your side of the story."

At first Helen, like Sam, didn't want to talk about it either but Susan had just the right blend of insistence and concern that, in the end, Helen did want to talk, did want to tell someone about the heartache and the reasons behind it. Once she'd started it all came pouring out and Susan, apart from the occasional prompting, just listened. Unlike Sam she knew more about what it's like to have a religious upbringing and, whilst it made her wince inside to hear her chosen lifestyle described as 'wicked' and 'wrong' at least she understood why Helen felt that way.

"So, that's it then. Irreconcilable, no way back?" Susan asked when Helen had finished.

"I can't... I can't go against my conscience," Helen replied bitterly. "It's what I was brought up to believe which is part of who I am. Sam wanted me to change, to be someone else and I can't be that person."

"But do you really believe that Sam is wicked? Do you really believe that Sam's a bad person?" Susan countered.

"Of course not!" Helen was quite affronted that she should be accused of thinking this.

"That's what I don't understand. Being a lesbian and a Domme, that's part of what Sam is, a very big part, a part that's pretty important to her. If you believe that being a lesbian Domme is wicked then you have to believe that Sam is wicked, don't you? And if, as you say, Sam's not wicked then surely what she is and what she does can't be wicked, can it? I'm not sure I follow you on that one." Susan glanced up at the clock over the bar. "Good heavens, is that the time. We'd best be getting back or our bosses will be wondering where we've got to. Hey, this has been great; we must do it again sometime, that's if you'll allow yourself to be with a pervert like me!" Susan laughed.

"Susan! I don't think you're a pervert!" Helen replied, horrified, but, of course, as the thought settled in she realised she must do. Somehow equating this warm, friendly person with moral depravity didn't equate, didn't work out at all.

The two women gathered their things together and rushed back to the office, returning just in time to be within the flexi time agreement. As they crossed the parking lot Helen was glad that she hadn't had to answer Susan's last implied question and, in her distracted state, she pushed it to one side. Sometimes right and wrong weren't that simple, weren't that easy to describe to someone else.

On Saturday Helen was pottering around the house, lost and at a loose end, when her mobile rang. She looked at the display; it was her mother. She nearly let it be but that was only delaying the inevitable so she pressed 'answer' and held it to her ear.

"Helen, I'm glad I've caught you. Why don't you come to chapel tomorrow and then come back home afterwards for lunch. It's been far too long since we saw you at chapel. We've got the pastor coming for lunch as well so it will be quite a party. How does that sound? Will I see you there?"

"Hi, mum, yes, yes..." Helen had stopped going to chapel for a reason but it wasn't a reason she could tell her mum and she knew from long experience that she'd cave in the end. However hard she tried to get out of it so saying 'yes' always ended up as the path of least resistance. They chatted on for a few brief moments but it seemed to Helen that they lived in different worlds and had very little left in common.

The rest of Saturday seemed to drag on forever. She had nothing to do and, worse than that, no one to do it with. Sunday morning, when it arrived, was grey and damp. The recent fine weather had broken and Helen huddled under her umbrella as she made her way across town to the chapel. Once she got there it was just as she had remembered it, the same old faces, perhaps a little older, going through the same old routine. They sang the same old hymns, all the ones about 'fighting the good fight' but there was no joy in it. Finally the pastor got up for his sermon.

It would seem that a new Gay and Lesbian Resource Centre had just opened in the neighbourhood and the pastor, as ever, had plenty to say on the matter. He described at some length the 'gay plague' that was sweeping the country, how the destruction of good old fashioned family values was degrading the very fabric of society, allowing this filth, as he described it, to become acceptable. 'This will never be acceptable in the face of the Lord.' He thundered. Then he railed against how the centre had been placed near to a school, hinting but never quite saying, that homosexuals and lesbians are all paedophiles and not safe with children. He went on at length about how 'they' worm their way in to positions of responsibility, promoting their evil gay agenda. He ended by saying that he was starting a protest march and he expected the entire congregation to join in. They would be meeting back at the chapel at three in the afternoon.

Helen sat aghast as she listened. The pastor, never a particularly mild man, was practically foaming at the mouth as this torrent of hatred spewed forth from him. She hadn't got to know that many gay or lesbian friends in her short time with Sam but she knew in her bones that those she had met were not the evil monsters that the pastor was describing. In her mind she replayed the row with Sam; she hadn't used the same words, she hadn't had the same vehemence, but, at the end of the day, hadn't she said the same thing? She was horrified at what she had implied, Even though what she had said might be relatively mild she'd called Sam 'wrong' and Sam had known enough to join the dots. At the end of the day she might as well have accused her of the same filth that she was hearing now.

The Sunday meal, back at her mum's house was purgatory. The pastor, evidently still fired up from his sermon, kept on, very much on the same theme and he was encouraged by the support and agreement he was getting from Helen's parents. Now that they were in private it was as if the gloves were off and all the smears, all the usual accusations, were coming out. As well as the 'not safe with children' line there was the 'AIDS is a gay plague, they've only themselves to blame' and 'gay marriage is tearing apart the very fabric of society'. Helen kept her head down but she was feeling increasingly nauseous and it wasn't down to mum's lumpy gravy.

"So, Helen, I'm counting on your support this afternoon," the pastor said across the dinner table. "We need all the people we can get."

"I don't think I can make it," Helen replied.

"Nonsense, dear. Of course you can. We're depending on you, aren't we, Pastor?" her mother interceded.

"But I have things to do, my washing, for example," Helen tried desperately.

"Nothing is more important than the Lord's work," the pastor said pompously. "A clean soul is more important than clean laundry."

"Indeed," said her mother. "Now, come along, don't be stupid. It's about time you got out and about instead of hiding yourself away in that pathetic little house of yours. If only you'd treated Rob properly you wouldn't be in this mess and I wouldn't have to be feeding you."

"That's right, do as your mother says, dear," Helen's father agreed in one of his rare interruptions.

Helen knew she should fight, knew she should at least make some sort of protest but, against the combined forces of her parents and the pastor she had no chance and, whatever her inner feelings, she wasn't ready to make a scene.

By three fifteen they were all piling out of the minibus, sorting themselves out in front of the community centre. All in all there were only eight of them and, in the damp weather, they made a rather pathetic group, huddled together on the pavement. Helen couldn't help feeling that one of the church members, one of the newer ones that she didn't know, looked awfully familiar. The pastor gave what he obviously thought of as a rousing speech about maintaining moral integrity in a sea of filth after which they all stood in a circle and sang the same old hymns. This alone would have been completely embarrassing for Helen but she had also been handed a placard which read. "Protect our children -- close the centre".

They had maybe been there half an hour or so before the inevitable counter demonstration arrived. It was immediately obvious that they were heavily outnumbered but the pastor rallied them to the cause and, in no time the two crowds were face to face trading insults. Helen kept her head down, hoping to stay unnoticed but, suddenly...

"You! What on earth! How can you!" Sam's voice cut through the melee. Helen looked up and, sure enough, there was Sam, along with Bernard and some friends from the club. Her heart sunk.

"Sam, Sam, I can explain," she tried.

"It doesn't look like there's much to explain here. Protect our children," Sam quoted from Helen's placard. "Is that what you think of us? Is that what you think of me?"

"Sam, it's not like that," Helen pleaded.

"It sure looks like it; you're the one holding the placard," Sam sneered.

"Excuse me, Helen, do you know this woman?" Helen's mum cut in. "She certainly seems to know you."

"Well I know who she is." Another voice cut across. It was the same woman that Helen had thought she recognised. "I saw her last weekend in the park kissing another woman and who knows what else besides. She was very rude to me, using all sorts of language."